


Until Death Do Us Part

by WhatIsTheSkyWithoutSomeClouds



Category: Amazingphil - Fandom, Danisnotonfire - Fandom, Phan, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Despair, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, M/M, Major Illness, Other, Phanfiction, Post-Despair, Rebirth, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsTheSkyWithoutSomeClouds/pseuds/WhatIsTheSkyWithoutSomeClouds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dynamic duo, separated by the Grim Reaper. Overwhelmed by the might of despair, how will Phil Lester cope?<br/>Will he?<br/>-Inspired by The Backstreet Boys' song titled Incomplete. To set the mood, you could listen to the song before reading.-<br/>DISCLAIMER: This is a work of pure fiction and should be viewed as such. It is based off real people, though I do not claim to know them personally nor do I cast any aspersions on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Death Do Us Part

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first phanfiction, so I apologize for any misconceptions.~

We all take things for granted.

 

Phil had always known that. Human beings often look beyond what they have and gape only at what they want. Then, when it's gone—when it's snatched right from their hands—they want it back.

 

But what Phil hadn't realized was just how much he'd overlooked. His life had seemed mundane to him. His friends were so few, his fan-base so small, his home so tiny. He'd never taken the time to be thankful for these little life-giving things; he'd lusted for more. The videos, the whiskers, the radio shows had seemed silly, like playing house.

 

And Dan.

 

Dan, with his strange obsessions. Dan, with his cynical and introverted exterior. Dan, with his stupid jokes and pacing at late hours.

 

Dan, whom Phil had never appreciated was there. To Phil, he was just a flat-mate. A good friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

Now, with the hospital walls glaring white and the beeping of machines scraping his ears, Phil despised himself for it.

 

Doctors and nurses hustled by. Families outside wept for the lost and fidgeted for the questionable. All around, there was silence of other patients. Stillness that sent people tumbling into despair…

 

Dan lay on the bed before Phil, unmoving—all that at once, and Phil wanted to smack himself for not praising every good day they'd had.

 

There he was: his best friend, with skin so frail and cheeks so gaunt. Hooked up to a machine that kept his heart beating because his body couldn't do it anymore. In this terrifying place of illness and woe, because something went wrong, because there was a parasite within him that ate him from the inside-out.

 

Because the world was unfair and cruel. A sick place where innocent people had their lives ripped away, and little deadly things crawled beneath your skin, and happiness was something to catch and hold until someone else steals it—futures corrupted, destinies awry.

 

Dan was just a tiny display of that. Attached to his quiet machines with his covers tucked snugly around him like a coffin as life seeped from his body. His family and friends were there, waiting for the inevitable—for the moment when the machines fall silent and Dan ventures to a place where it's not certain he'll be seen again.

 

Then one of the machine's beeping slowed, and with it, Phil's veins turned to ice. Unwittingly, he took Dan's hand, gripping it as if it were his own lifeline. Under Dan's skin, below whatever monster was munching away at his life, Phil felt the faintest pulse. It helped lift his spirit to know that underneath a fatal disease, the horror of his appearance, Dan was fighting. Struggling against this demon inside him, battling for life. And despite the horrible odds, despite what the doctors and machines and even his own friends said, Phil was forced to hope. Hope and pray for this ghostly pulse to keep his best friend alive. For Dan to emerge from this silent war victorious. So Phil wouldn't have to return alone, to deliver the news to both of their fans before the media did. Although Phil knew it was pointless—that the outcome was already decided, that Dan would never again open his eyes to the light of day, that it was all out of his and anyone else's hands.

 

But he still held on. Limp, cold fingers intertwined with a hammering heartbeat. Hope entangled with hopelessness. For hours, Phil stared at Dan's milky face. The same that had worn a friendly smile and warm eyes for so many years. Dimples that seemed to pop out and cheer. Skin that tanned too easily. Now the smile and eyes were drained. The dimples hid within the paper-white skin that looked as if it'd break on contact. Phil held and stared, wondering, How could this be my best friend when he looks so defeated? Dan never looks defeated.

 

But he was. Dan was defeated, and his time was up, and it was all so unfair that his time was up and that he was here and that Phil had never appreciated him before.

 

Then, as hands were joined, it happened. The great, sweet release–though there was nothing great nor sweet about it—it happened suddenly, without warning, without time to say one last goodbye. When it did, the shoestring suspending the grief snapped. Sobs ripped from throats.

 

Dan flatlined; Phil's heart was wrenched from his chest.

 

The world fell away in fragments: Dan's hand felt skeletal in Phil's. The cries from those beside him seemed to be miles away. The movement of the doctors were shadows and the monotones they spoke in were echoes within them. And then Dan was moving, falling away, floating from Phil's reach. It took him a moment to realize they were placing him on a gurney, wheeling him away. Taking him from those he loved most.

 

Phil watched him and the doctors, looking grim but not particularly mournful, turn the corner. Then he was gone. Dan Howell—danisnotonfire—was gone.

 

The drive home was longer than it should have been. Loneliness and dread turned his heart heavy. His brain thundered with thoughts. The seconds stretched into minutes, the minutes into hours. Along the way, Phil sneaked glances of the empty passenger seat beside him. A seat Dan should be in, his mind whispered. A seat he will never be in again, in a world he will never be in again.

 

Phil rolled that over in his head. That, and the injustice in the world. The idea that, as people—as human beings with a purpose—it is our job to make the most of this place. That's what Phil had always thought. But with a fist of iron squeezing his heart, it dawned on him that some never get that chance. They don't get to make the most of this life, because they don't have enough time—Dan didn't have enough time. Dan would never get that chance, not ever again.

 

But he wasn't dead. No, not really. He was still very much alive—except not in this Earth, not in this time. He was alive, thriving even, inside others. Living in the hearts of his fans, existing in the minds of his family. It was impossible, but Phil could almost feel it: fierce pounding inside him, as if he had two hearts. Ridiculous—it was just the common pain of losing a loved one. Yet it comforted him to think that way.

 

If the car ride was bad, the arrival home was horrid. As Phil pushed open the door to his flat, grief crashed into him, full force. Empty. A deserted living room scattered with games and props. Things that have been disregarded for weeks, lying on the floor and sofa without purpose. A kitchen with unopened boxes and slightly spoiled milk. And the rooms… The rooms were ominous. Phil's bed made, as he'd done this morning, his computer and camera pushed aside. Medical books, thick and bookmarked in many places, had taken their place. He'd been researching. Looking for a cure to no avail. A waste of time and effort.

 

Dan's room, lonely and abandoned. Messy bed, pillows on the floor, tissues splayed across the mattress. Another neglected computer and camera, only the camera was out of its case, as if Dan had collapsed trying to film himself. Familiar with his subtle determination, Phil knew it was entirely possible, and bit his cheek to fend off the sting in his head.

 

There was something creepy about the room. Not just the disorganization or absence of Dan—those were just sad. The place seemed almost haunted, beckoning to Phil like a snake before it strikes. Phil backed up into his own room, closing and locking the door then hiding under his covers.

 

He was afraid. Not of ghosts, but of being seen this way. It was silly—he was alone in his apartment. No one would see anything. Still, without the duvet pulled over his head, he couldn't let the tears fall. It'd be like running stark naked down the block—exposing. He needed to be completely alone before he let the sadness and terror drown him.

 

And it did. The days were composed of cries under the covers, overwhelming sorrow, and an endless falling sensation.

 

The funeral took place the following week. Phil hated every second of it.

 

There were too many people. Strangers that Phil had never seen before, weeping and mourning as if they had the right. As if they knew Dan like Phil did. The speeches were terrible—pitiful words untrue to who Dan was. He could imagine if he was here, Dan would be scowling.

 

Despite how his heart yearned to speak, to gaze one last time at his friend's face, Phil didn't talk nor approach the casket. He could hardly trust himself to stand upright; seeing Dan's body up close, without life, without anything left at all… Or speaking in front of all these undeserving people about something that felt so personal… It just might send him on a one-way trip into the clouds. So he stood quietly, not really listening to the words they said or looking anywhere at all. Staring off into space, looking bitterly into an abyss.

 

Then there was more despair. The days were bad enough—colorless and boring without a friend to record with—but the nights, oh, the nights were unforgiving. Sleepless at first. Phil stayed awake, watching the sun set and the moon dance across the sky, shadows encircling him like the ones in his mind. Then, he got sleep. Horrible, dreamless sleep. Either waking up trembling at midnight or slamming the snooze button until noon.

 

But weeks later, those were the worst. The godawful, nightmare-brimming darknesses. Dan haunted him past dusk. For some, Phil was back in that hospital. The walls glared white and machines rang and families outside wept. It was nothing more than a jagged memory, but reliving it was a stab in the gut. Other nights, Dan was a ghost. Expressionless, motionless, yet somehow moving away. Far from Phil's reach. Away, and then gone. Vanished like smoke into the air.

 

The nightmares tortured him the moments when his mind wasn't racing with thoughts, regrets, wishes, and unthinkable desires. He'd jolt awake in the dreary blackness of reality, clutching the sheets moist with sweat, and then drift off again to the terrorizing horror of his own mind. It went on like this for months. Long, dull months. No videos, no radio shows, no going out or interviewing or any of that. Not now. And not ever the same.

 

For months it droned on. Phil sobbed and quaked and stared. An unbearable duration of nothingness.

 

Nearly a year later, Phil was visited. Not by the ghouls of his imagination, but by PJ, his old friend. At first sight, PJ seemed bored—slouched and unconcerned. But when he stepped into the pale afternoon light of the flat, Phil saw the hunch in his shoulders wasn't disinterest; it was exhaustion. He looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks. And behind the fatigue in his eyes, beyond his sleepy posture and bed-head hair, he was still grieving. It was evident in his frown. PJ looked to be mourning not only Dan, but the entire world.

 

It was awkward. The air was tense as they took a seat on the sofa, facing each other, and studied one another. PJ examined Phil as if he were an experiment. For a powerful ten minutes, there was only silence. Something hid within it, beyond the ability of words. A gaze of pity from PJ. A hesitating hand reaching for his own. With some reluctance, Phil took it. Cold, paper-thin skin. Too similar to Dan's that day. He recoiled.

 

Finally, PJ spoke: "Hello, Phil."

 

Phil replied: "Hello, PJ."

 

The silence returned for a minute or two, like the tide washing over sand. So much for breaking the ice.

 

PJ asked, "How are you?"

 

Except it wasn't your average meaningless greeting. Worry glittered in his eyes and tone. With it, fear flowered between them.

 

"I'm fine." It was a lie. Of course, this being his first conversation in months, there was no hiding it.

 

"You're not."

 

Not trusting his tongue, Phil shook his head. He turned to blink away the sharpness behind his forehead.

 

Silence once again, awful in its length. Analyzing, diagnosing, making judgments. Time dribbled by until PJ came to a conclusion.

 

"You need to move on."

 

The words tore through Phil like a bullet. He stared, wondering if he'd heard correctly, if the grief and sickness and dreams were deluding his sense of reality.

 

"What?" The question scraped Phil's raw throat like a saw on wood.

 

"You need to move on with your life, Phil," PJ put flatly. "You can't lie around moping until you die. You have to get up and carry on. It's the only way you'll get better."

 

'Get better.' As if there were something wrong with him—as if he were diseased.

 

"There's nothing wrong with me, Peej. I'm just grieving. It's a natural thing people do after someone dies."

 

That word—that dreadful difference between hope and loss—shattered Phil's guard like glass crashing to the floor.

 

"You've been grieving for months. It's time to get over it."

 

His tone, the way he spoke those words as if this were nothing, simmered Phil's blood. He bit back nasty words and, teary-eyed with anger and distress, pushed on.

 

"How do I 'get over it,' PJ? How do I move on from this? I don't know—no one's ever told me how—I have no clue how to deal with this! If you're so well-informed, then please, enlighten me. Tell me exactly how I carry on after my best friend, the only person I've met that sees things the same as I do…" His voice splintered. Pain awakened in his head and heart. Phil jerked away, facing the window just as the first tear fell. Down his cheek, off his chin, into his lap. Then the second, and third—then a flood was released, and Phil sobbed into his palms, his willpower dissolving and the storm within him thundering.

 

Once he recovered, his body having shed all the water in it, he wiped his face and looked back to PJ. His eyes betrayed soft sympathy.

 

"I'm sorry, Phil." And he sounded like he meant it, really and truly, in all the ways and depths you can possibly say sorry. Phil didn't reply.

 

PJ went on. "I know. You can come with us—me and Chris—for a short walk around the city. You know, to sort of remind you what's out there and what you're missing out on. I can't say it'll be fun, because, like, what's fun about walking around London? But it might help. I don't know, only if you want. I'm just suggesting…" He trailed off, the words dying between them.

 

A night out in London with PJ and Chris, his old good friends. Out in the world of people again, surrounded by life and movement and bliss. A chance to clear his mind and spend quality time with his mates. The answer should have been black and white.

 

But it wasn't. As fantastic as the idea sounded, it felt right to be alone. Despite all the hurt it earned him, Phil felt as if this is where he was meant to be from now on. Locked up, always mourning for his friend and for himself. Drowning in self-pity. It was almost his career now, like he'd let others down if he didn't do it. Quite a depressing way to think, but Phil couldn't stomp out the thoughts. They kept persisting, eating away at his strength the way illness had eaten away Dan's…

 

"Dan would want you to," PJ insisted, his head lowered as if in prayer.

 

True. Dan would want Phil to move on, to live his life. How was unclear—but he could, probably. Maybe; with effort and a little miracle.

 

Effort and a miracle.

 

The despair cracked; a crevice hissed open. Sharp white light beneath a jagged mountain of dejection.

 

Phil made a mental note to try. For Dan. For himself and the person within him that had died along with Dan. Because he believed that deep down, below the discouragement and anxiety, he wanted to. He had to. He must.

 

"O— Okay," Phil stammered, clearing his throat. "When?"

 

If PJ was surprised by Phil's agreement, it wasn't shown. He just nodded, as if he'd never doubted Phil would say yes. There were tears in his eyes, too—subtle, glittering like morning mist. He made no effort to will them away.

 

"How's today, in a few hours or so? You can get cleaned up, change. Maybe shower—please, you reek." Lighthearted teasing. A pump on Phil's shoulder with a fist. Things from a different lifetime.

 

"A few hours?" Phil detested his voice, sounding vulnerable like a child asking his mother a question about the first day of a new school.

 

"Yeah." PJ took Phil's hand again, squeezing it reassuringly. The skin was still cold, but beneath that, Phil could feel blood pumping and a steady, healthy pulse.

 

Then a realization, peaking in the back of his mind: this was not Dan's hand. This was not Dan. This was Peej, and an offer—a light in the tunnel. It was clear in that moment—it was a chance to move towards that light, and Phil could. He would—oh, he would—because he deserved better; because Dan deserved better, and Phil would scream to the world for stealing that chance in cold blood.

 

And suddenly, there was energy in him. Adrenaline, coursing through his veins like icy water—like someone turned a knob and it came blasting from a faucet into his body.

 

"Phil…?"

 

Phil looked at PJ, and without quite meaning to, grimaced. The energy was painful. It wasn't a nice warm shower. The water was too cold. It chilled him to the bone.

 

"You okay? You seem kind of… off. Should I call a therapist or…?"

 

"No, no. I— God, this is embarrassing. I was thinking. If that makes sense." It didn't. "How about we go now?"

 

An eyebrow was arched. "Now? You sure?"

 

"I'm certain."

 

PJ searched Phil's face for lies, though there were none to be seen.

 

"Well, okay. But for the love of the Queen, take a shower first."

 

Then he was stood up, walking to the doorway. Leaving.

 

"Wait!" Phil called, jarring upright. PJ turned, his eyes large and white.

 

"What?"

 

"W— Where are you going?" Phil stammered. At the sound of his voice—vulnerable and helpless—he cringed.

 

"Relax. I'm just getting Chris. Meet us at the Starbucks down the block." He reached for the knob, then hesitated, glancing apprehensively over his shoulder. His next words were mere whispers, though to Phil they were louder than any scream.

 

"Dan would be proud."

 

And he was gone; out the door, down the stairs, disappearing into the dense crowds below the apartment. Phil was alone again—the hope he'd felt was beginning to dim, overcome by gloom. He hurried to the bathroom, rushing through his routine as the candle in his darkened heart slowly sputtered out.

 

With a good long look in the mirror, Phil noticed how unattractive he seemed. His skin had paled with time; his figure had thinned and face hollowed. His hair was filthy like an old rag, fingers brittle and… Oh God.

 

His eyes.

 

Empty. Empty, like his flat now. Like the hospital once the machines had hushed, like one's heart when a valuable life was lost. Empty, like Dan's were throughout the time he was still here, conscious. No twinkle of fun, no sparkle of humor. Not even a glint of kindness. The blue had lost its glimmer. Just empty, without life.

 

That should have done it: pushed Phil off the unstable ledge he was hardly balancing on. But for some reason, it didn't. The world was strange in that sense—things rarely functioned the way you'd expect them to. Instead, Phil was encouraged by this. Motivated even further to go out and have a blast and regain his life.

 

Yes, he could see now. He wanted to be happy. He wanted to be AmazingPhil again, and reclaim his glory. He wanted his half-smile and fringe and glimmering eyes and tall body. He wanted his fans close to him and his friends even closer.

 

He needed Dan. Not wanted—he _needed_ Dan, and he had him. Within him. He was there within him.

 

So he showered. It was a nice, familiar feeling. Warm water that tickled his back and mist that hid him from the terror that haunted him. He cleaned, scrubbing away his nightmares. It was tough. They calloused him, scarred him. Things like that don't vanish with water and soap—time mends them, and effort. With both, he could be fixed. He would be whole again.

 

Out of the shower, he dried himself and changed into a decent set of clothes. Not his own. Dan's jeans and T-shirt. Even the llama hat, as a tribute. When he studied himself in the mirror, Phil didn't see only himself. He also saw a boy slightly taller, fit and slim with tanned skin. Cocoa eyes and hair to match. A dimpled and contagious smile. It was still Phil, but someone else, too. Both of them now, sharing this world and all the worlds beyond it together. Best friends, an inseparable duo.

 

Never again left in the dust.

 

So Phil grabbed his keys and phone, laced his shoes, and headed out.

 

Just like that, the candle had rekindled itself.

 

***

 

The night was, all in all, okay. PJ was right—it wasn't remarkably fun or entertaining. They just went for coffee, paced the streets, sat in the park and admired the appearing stars. Chris had, like them all, changed. He seemed constantly tired, bags like suitcases under his faded eyes and features fallen. But he, like them all, still smiled. When a funny joke was told, or an amusing story on the news was announced, the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

 

No laughter. They weren't quite ready for that. The smiles were even somewhat forced, though they were still there, fragile as glass. Especially when they discussed Dan, which brought tears spilling, but also resurfaced some incredible memories. They focused on the life he'd had pre-illness. Wistfulness hung in the air like storm clouds; there was a kind of sad beauty to it all, as if it were an old city in which flowers sprouted through cracks in cement.

 

The remembrances should have felt painful—and they did, a bit—but Phil knew this was right. Real respect for Dan, more than he'd received at his funeral. There, people had only spoken of his unfortunate sickened life. But no one wants to be remembered for their disease or what was ever 'wrong with them'—their soul lies in who they were, not what they'd had or how they'd departed.

 

The strangers moving past in blobs were exactly that—blobs. For Phil, there was only him, his friends, and the night they finally said goodbye. Gazing at the deepening sky, imagining Dan among the constellations, they each vowed to never forget. They promised to visit him soon—not too soon, yet not too far off. A weight he hadn't realized was there lifted from Phil's chest. He cried; tears of farewell and relief this time. And faith, praying to see his best friend again one day, and expectance of what comes next. Whatever it was, Phil knew it'd be fine. It'd take time to recover—time and effort—but he would. This night, his mates, the partygoers giggling and chatting away, have all taught him it was possible. Dan had moved on, and so would he.

 

Life goes on. Phil would be okay. He was never alone; no one was.

 

***

 

Several more months later, Phil decided to re-enter Dan's room. It was just as he'd left it—abandoned and eerie—though some of the sadness had lifted. Still, as he stepped through the doorway into dry air, gray tinged everything, as if he'd lost his ability to see color in the world.

 

He wanted to leave—to lock himself away and hide again. The temptation coiled around his ankle. It tugged insistently, urging him back into the dark.

 

Except now he resisted. Phil would not again be forced into the bleak dreary of self-sorrow. Not while the candle was still flickering, burning bright in the black that threatened to suffocate him.

 

He crossed the threshold that separated this tomb from the rest of the world. It was like a graveyard; a lingering smell of sickness hung low in the air. Medicine and tissue boxes littered the places blankets didn't. The camera, still on the floor gathering dust and dread. Phil considered picking it up, but dismissed the idea; while he was certain he'd never forget, it was a striking reminder that this was reality, not some coffee-induced nightmare.

 

He walked through the room, careful where to place his feet. It was like pacing the halls of an old king's palace. Dan's old knickknacks were artifacts to Phil: invaluable. A shard of the past. A puzzle piece to the future.

 

Phil had been in conflict with himself over the past week. He'd been debating whether or not to move out. The flat was unbearably lonely and it only seemed to bring him pain. He could invite a friend to move in, but the thought of a new shadow replacing that of Dan's churned his organs. And with the money he used to earn frequently and the pity-cash he'd received during his despair, there was no doubt he could afford a better apartment. For a while, he'd been preparing to pay and pack.

 

Although, swimming through the untouched sea of clothing, it seemed wrong. Easier, sure—running away is less work than staying to fight—but… disrespectful. Like ditching your friend to hang out with another.

 

Recovery isn't easy. It's a hike through hell. He'd endure.

 

When he reached the far side of the room, he breathed in a musty scent of dirt and… Dan's smell. Buried under the stench of dust and heat, but it was there. A nice scent, like grass. Freshly cut on a summer's day. Phil smiled and closed his eyes, finding safety from the dark in it. But it wavered too soon.

 

He started to the door, glancing at the bed and shelves as he went… And noticed something. A wooden box, peeking from beneath the covers. It stood out amid the ocean of dusty objects, polished and put in clear view. Yellow among the gray.

 

Phil maneuvered around the DVDs scattered and sat on the edge of the bed. The box was a meager storage chest with a sticky note stuck to the lid. It read in Dan's sloppy handwriting:

 

_Open this after. Then get on with it._

 

'Open this after.' Obvious enough—but get on with what?

 

Phil eagerly wrenched the lid off and peered inside, expecting a goodbye letter or perhaps a present. His surprise proved to be even better.

 

Inside was an iPhone—Dan's iPhone, still in its case, still cracked from its many falls down the stairs. Another note, an Index card this time, read in four simple words:

 

_Turn on. Watch. Live._

 

He switched on the phone—what came next made him shiver.

 

It was them. Both of them, in Phil's room, healthy and innocent and lively. Whiskers. Silly editing. A video of theirs—Phil is not on fire bloopers.

 

Dan spoke. His voice stole Phil's breath.

 

_"Phil, do you ever wonder what your life would be like without Dan? If so, what would it be like?"_

 

Constant midnight. Loneliness. Colorless boredom.

 

_"I wouldn't know what a placenta is in so much detail."_

 

His own words smacked his heart.

 

Video-Dan laughed. The sound rippled throughout the flat.

 

_"Is that what I brought to your life?"_

 

"No!" Phil shouted at the screen.

 

_"Yeah."_

 

Acting on a whim, he chucked the iPhone at the headboard.

 

Not knowing what a placenta is in much detail? Well, sure, that's something that Dan had contributed—but there was so much more. Incredible love; platonic, hardly romantic, but…

 

But it was special. Extraordinary. Stars aligned and gears clicked into place when they were together. Even in moments of disagreement, anger, and jealously—in life and loss, space and Earth, past and present…

 

As a matter of fact, Phil had always been superstitious. So it wasn't a shock that he believed fate—destiny; paths to find and follow—existed.

 

How could it not, when he was so clearly caught in it now? It was a shining heaven in the pits of hell.

 

The video was still playing, Phil realized. He retrieved the phone and stared unblinkingly at the footage, but his head was in the clouds. He only captured bits and pieces of conversation. Laughter that fueled the fire in his heart. Glimpses of their faces: youthful. Free of pallor and grief and illness. What a time that was. And once again, he'd never really cherished it until now.

 

Once the video was over, Phil switched off the iPhone, placed it back inside the box, closed it, and sat still. He expected tears; pain, heartbreak, longing, regret…

 

None of the above. Because he knew why.

 

Dan was smart. Not in a sense of good grades and perfect attendance—that would just mean he was punctual, which in most cases, he was not. Smart, in a clever way. Cynical, some might call it. Sarcastic, even.

 

Phil called it sly.

 

Dan wouldn't leave Phil this box with a single memory just so Phil could feel bad. That would be cruel. Dan was a lot of things—not all of them good—but cruel definitely wasn't one. To someone else, a fan maybe, the video would mean to never forget. That was true, sort of.

 

It meant to remember, but also to move on. Which Phil had thought he did. But when he gave it more consideration, he noticed that no, he hadn't entirely. He'd never completely get over it. Some scars never heal, and that was okay.

 

But he was still desperately clinging to that thread. Searching Dan's room, refusing to move out… It'd seemed brave. Heroic, even. But really, they were just excuses to keep hidden.

 

_Turn on. Watch. Live._

 

Was he living? No; he was surviving. This wasn't living.

 

_Get on with it._

 

So then, how could he start living again? What gave him this life in the first place? What paid for his resources, brought him great opportunities, earned him new friends and fans?

 

_Is that what I brought to your life?_

 

What did Dan bring to Phil's life, aside from irreplaceable companionship? Money. From a certain career…

 

He scrambled to his feet, hurried into his bedroom. Locked the door, made the bed. Checked his fringe; turned on the camera, loaded the computer. Rehearsed a mental script. Things he'd wanted to say and announce for too long. Checked his fringe once more, parting it just as he used to—and clicked record.

 

"Hey, guys!"

 

He smiled; raised his hand and waved. His voice was hoarse, the smile crooked and wave shaky, though he kept on. Spilled his soul to the camera, edited it mercilessly for hours, and hesitated a near fifteen minutes before finally uploading.

 

As views piled up and comments flooded in, dawn gradually broke through the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed. If so, something nice would be appreciated -- comment? Follow, maybe? Is that how this site works or am I totally misreading this?  
> If you didn't enjoy... no harm done, right? No?  
> I'll let myself out now.


End file.
